“Seventy-five,” he says. “That’s a good number.” He’s in his 60s. What do you mean, “a good number?” “Seventy-five is a passing grade. If you make it to 100 you get an A.”
Apropos of nothing she says: “End of show. Lights up. That’s it.”
M is the guy my former wife left me for. Now we’re friends. Once came to blows. Now we’re friends. Her I don’t see so much. Him I do. He lives in L.A. He tells me, not a compliment, that I was one of the first, an “early adapter,” someone who early on (in the early 1970s) sought to cultivate the “extended family” thing (as a way of staying in touch with my children, five children.)
“Extended families are pretty common now,” he says. “But you got an early start.”
“Yeah, thanks to you,” I say. “You’re the dude who broke up the marriage.”
He knows and I know it would have broken up anyway. We talk about sex. “One can linger in love too long. When it’s over, it’s over,” he says. “Sexually people are more likely to click at the same time in the beginning. That’s when there’s some kind of simultaneity. But when it’s over, it’s over. There’s a simultaneity at the start. Both parties feeling pretty much the same thing at the same time. BUT, when it’s over, it isn’t likely you’ll find any kind of simultaneity.
I’ve been married four times and in truth, at same level, still feel married to each of my former spouses. Even wrote a book about it, a not very good novel, A Much Married Man.